


Epilogue

by doctorsaxon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, M/M, Murder, PTSD, Rape, Watersports, stockholm syndrone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3073835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorsaxon/pseuds/doctorsaxon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham had finally found his peace.  [Cellar Door Collection]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> Check the tags. If you see a trigger, don't go on.

Your alarm blares at half past six in the morning, and you rub your eyes balefully against the sun that intrudes through the window.  The trees outside parted in just the right way to give you the brunt of the morning light.  Sitting up, you blindly grab for your phone to disable your alarm, fumbling through the menu options in a half-asleep daze to do so.  Finally, the room is quiet and you’re able to appreciate some of the birds trilling to each other.  For once you feel rested and good, a full night’s sleep that’s uninterrupted by nightmares or terrors.  It’s the best feeling in the world.

 

There’s no texts from Jack; that’s been a familiar thing as of late, no texts from Jack.  He was giving you air after your run-in with Hannibal, it would seem.  You didn’t feel that empty gnawing any more, either, like you had to answer to his every beck and call.  You had been through the belly of the beast and came out the other side victorious and free.  You had almost forgotten what it was like to be free.

 

Feet slip into your favorite worn slippers and you start your morning routine.  You shiver against the chill that’s settled in over night and flick on the heating, which rattles in protest as it kicks to life.  Immediately, a gust of warm air washes over you and you smile, walking downstairs to a flurry of wet noses and wagging tails on the other side of the baby gate keeping them cloystered off downstairs.  You used to let them sleep in bed with you, but you tended to scare them when you had nightmares.  Under the circumstances, you’ve been considering getting rid of that gate all together and sleeping with them again.  You pet each head in turn as you walk through the house to get their breakfast.  Dogs crowd around you and all you can do is laugh as you pour each bowl in turn and top each with some sausages out of the fridge.  Dogs yap and bark excitedly before you have them wait for their food, carefully setting each bowl in their pre-determined favorite spots before they can go eat.

 

Dogs done, it’s time for your own breakfast.  Strictly regulated still -- only small, light portions until you put on some weight.  So it’s a quarter of a cup of blueberries and a glass of juice for breakfast.  Sitting at the table, you munch idly on the berries as you check the news.  Another killing on the front page.  You frown and glance at your phone again.  Still no text from Jack.  You shrug and finish your breakfast in short order, before retreating for a shower.

 

You count off the normal amount of time it takes for your water to heat up, before stepping under the spray and sighing out as heat washes over you.  You suds up your hair and body in a blissful haze, sighing out in unashamed pleasure.  Hot showers were one of the things you had apparently taken for granted up until your imprisonment and you weren’t going to make that mistake again.  A daily chore that was formerly quick and militant was now savored, soaking up every last drop of hot water like a gift from god.

 

You had finally stopped equating the water with the liquid heat of cum, or blood, or piss.  You had finally started appreciating it for what it was.  You let your mouth fall open and collect some of the water in it, spitting it down the drain again. You want to be clean inside and out.

 

The habitual washing ritual you had made the day of your release is still stuck with you.  Thorough.  You briefly dip a finger into yourself, and you’ve finally stopped feeling sick and thinking of his face.  It almost makes you smile.

 

You get out and towel off, hair and body with equal time and care.  Old wounds are re-bandaged as necessary, the last of them finally starting to close and clear.  You smile openly at that.  Almost gone, the little traces are almost gone.

 

By the time you’re dressed and groomed, it’s nearly eight.  You praise weekends to yourself as you do some basic household chores.  Dishes, empty food dishes picked up, laundry, vacuuming, et cetera.  You do the laundry, and even still you need to leave the cellar door open behind you or those old anxieties kick in.  You take stock of your groceries and write a list.  You work on your lures.

 

The heat cuts off around midday, the warmth streaming in from the sunlight instead.  You take a nap, something you haven’t indulged in since you were a teenager.  At two thirty, you finally wake up and prepare to leave for the store.  You do a quick security check.  There’s a knife in every room, and most have small caliber handguns stowed here and there as well.  The rifle by the door is loaded and ready, and the big carver’s knife hidden in the umbrella holder is handle-up.  You grab the thick blue leash from the key hanger.  Since the ordeal, you very quickly had Winston certified as your service dog and took him absolutely everywhere.

 

He made you feel safe again.

 

Spinach.  Squash.  Berries.  Vegetable stock.  You don’t pay very close attention as you grab your items, grabbing the cheapest things as always.  You don’t care.  When you get to the checkout you indulge in a chocolate bar because for the first time since you were free, you had an actual craving for something.  You eat it on the way home.

 

By the time you get home, you and Winston are exhausted.  He goes to his bed, turns three times and lays down.  You put the groceries away, open the fridge, and stare for close to a full minute before throwing your hands up and ordering from an obscure chinese place with a low delivery fee.  Forty-five minutes.  Heaving a sigh, you head into the living room and flop on the couch, turning your TV on as Winston abandons his bed in favor of the couch beside you.  You have to awkwardly arrange your arms over his head.

 

You browse the internet with the Food Network babbling on in the background, scanning news articles and occasionally glancing towards your phone.  It was an absolutely inane waste of time.  You were hungry after only eating your few berries this morning.  Your eyes close a moment, the dull droning of Robert Irvine fading into the distance as you isolated from the world for a while.

 

You finally stopped seeing him when you closed your eyes.

 

The doorbell rings and shakes you from your daze.  You blink awake and stand, patting yourself down in the search for your wallet.  You’re pulling it out as you answer the door and take a quick glance at the quiet teenager waiting there.  He’s twitching a bit and avoiding your gaze, and you can feel it.  You can feel the filth radiating off of his personality.  You frown and try to brush it off.

 

“Ah -- shit, can you come in?  I just need to grab the rest from my room,” you mumble, looking up hopefully.  The driver barely glances in your direction.

 

“Not supposed to.”

 

Your lips pull downwards into a frown and you shrug, nearly closing the door as you retreat down the hall and up to your room.

 

When you open the door again, you peek out to find him still standing there with your bag of food, glancing through your window.  Your home.  Your privacy.

 

Your eyes narrow a bit and he looks towards you again.

 

“Hey, don’t I know you from something?” he asks, only just seeming to recognize your face.  You feel dizzy when his words sink in, breath hitching.

 

“I don’t…  I’ve never seen you before,” you mumble, and he just frowns more.  He’s making eye contact.

 

“No, I’ve seen your face.  Wait, you’re that guy!”

 

“Guy…”

 

“Yeah!  From the Lecter house!”

 

You smile a bit and duck behind the door again, thumbing through your wallet.  You quietly reach down and grab the handle of the carving knife.

 

“Alright, I’ve got your money right here,” you assure, peering around the door again only so you can plunge the blade down into the driver’s neck, the long blade plunging with ease through layers of muscle and cartilage.  You watch his face impassively as his eyes go wide before quickly fading, dragging him inside on stumbling feet.  He’s fighting you, but not very hard, they never do.

 

Humming softly, you drag the now dead weight down towards the basement with you, Winston following after his dragging feet with his tail up and wagging.  You praise him softly and toss the corpse up onto your project table, ruffling the dog’s ears playfully before you set to work separating tissue from bone, slicing and filleting skillfully along the grain of the muscle.  The occasional fatty or tough scrap is tossed to Winston, who circles you happily in search of more.

 

The boning knife slides smoothly against connective tissue, much finer work than the initial bleeding out you had done.  You chop through bones with clean precision, shards falling to the floor where Winston noses them eagerly for something bigger.

 

You just laugh.

 

“I know, Winston, I know!  Sit, boy!” you laugh, gently nudging him away as you separate the steaks off.  “You’ll get yours when I’m done!  Down!  Down!”

 

You pack some of the meat in the freezer.  A tiny piece of lean muscle is lifted to your lips and placed gingerly on your tongue.

 

You sigh and smile softly.

 

“Oh Winston,” you sigh.

 

“Ordering in was such a good idea.”

 

Winston smiles and throws a bucket of water in your face.

  
  
  


You wake with a start as a bucket of ice cold water was dumped over you, eyes opening wide to the dreary grey and white torture of your prison.  Hannibal is staring down at you, a wide grin on his face.

 

Your stomach flips and groans angrily.

 

Gazes meet, and yours is wild.  You whisper brokenly.

 

“I want Chinese food.  Please, Hannibal…”

 

He grins broadly.

 

 


End file.
